


Hero By Proxy

by Eldalire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Friendship, Happy Ending, Illness, Mental Health Issues, Munchausen by proxy, Non-explicit abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-15 00:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13019232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: Feuilly volunteers to help with some housekeeping for a woman and her chronically, severely ill son, Jehan.  But he never imagined the true cause of Jehan's illness was so sinister.  Now Feuilly has to find a way to help his friend, before it's too late.





	1. Chapter 1

It was apparent to Feuilly upon entering the house that something was…off.

            He had been called to do some handiwork for the owner of the home, a widow who lived with her terminally ill son. In fact, he had been hired by the local community center, who was offering support to the woman as her son’s condition deteriorated further.

            It was strange…The house was not in disrepair, but was definitely in need of some work: crown moldings were leaning against the wall, never properly put up. Many light fixtures were lacking bulbs, the knob on the closet door was missing, a windowpane was cracked and repaired with duct tape. Feuilly had been told that the dishwasher was broken as well. What was strange, though, was the smell.

            Despite the clear carelessness to the house’s appearance, the place was impeccably clean. There was no dust to be seen on any surface, and cleaning supplies filled the kitchen: bleach, ammonias, even drain cleaner were all out and recently used. The smell was like a hospital; unnervingly so, but he figured it was only in an effort to keep her son from becoming sicker. Still, it was…eerie. Something just…wasn’t right.

 

A moment later, a woman bustled from the back room of the house, pulling her hair up into a ponytail with strong arms. She was a large woman, not fat, but built like a tank, a bodybuilder, maybe.

            “You must be Feuilly,” she said with a smile, offering the young man a handshake.

            “That’s me!” he replied with a smile, despite his unease. He shrugged his heavy bag of tools up higher on his shoulder.

            “Nice to meet you! I’m Jacqueline Prouvaire. Hey would it be alright if you started with the little space heater, actually? It’s a little thing, I should probably just buy another one, but—”

            “Yeah. I mean…I’ll try,” he agreed, looking out the window. It was summertime. Not space heater season.

            “It’s just that Jehan gets so cold, and it broke the other day and he’s been just shivering, the poor dear,” she said, leading Feuilly into the back room, where things seemed even more uncomfortable.

            It wasn’t a large room…In fact it was relatively narrow, with a plush recliner armchair, the footrest only a few feet from a small television playing a nature documentary. Besides the chair and the tiny television table, there was no other real furniture. There was a stool in the corner, and one of those folding snack tables, but that was about it. Feuilly almost didn’t see the trembling form of a skinny young man in the massive chair, completely swallowed by it, curled in a ball under a heavy blanket. It had to be at least 85 degrees in the room, and yet he shivered as he slept, his long, red hair piled in a nest atop his head, away from his bluish face, his cheeks sunken, his skin watery and freckled. He might have been beautiful, if he were well, and Feuilly felt his heart sink. He had expected a much younger child, but this was somehow sadder. Though it was difficult to tell his age, Feuilly guessed Jehan was about 20, when he should have been in his prime, yet here he was, trembling in a ball in a stark room, freezing in the summer heat, his life ending before it even began.

            “Is he…I mean…can I do anything?” Feuilly asked, feeling quiet sorry.

            “I wish you could, dear, but there’s nothing for it. He’s been sick since he was a baby,” she replied. Feuilly felt his stomach wrench again. Not only was this young man dying, he _had been_ dying for his entire life. “But he’ll be much more comfortable if you can fix that little heater for him,” she pointed to the ceramic space heater sitting on the windowsill, just a few inches from the arm of the chair.

            “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

            “Thank you, Feuilly, I really do appreciate the help. It’s so difficult to keep up with the house when I’m looking after Jehan, not that I mind it, I’d do anything for him,”

            “You’re a very good mother,” Feuilly assured her. This seemed to please her, and she smiled, beaming.

            “That means a lot to me,” she said. “I’m going to go start dinner. Just give a yell if Jehan needs anything. Or you!” She left the room, and Feuilly got to work, pulling out a screwdriver and removing the back of the little machine, trying to stay quiet, hoping he didn’t wake Jehan.

            “Are you fixing that?” a tiny, weak voice asked. It startled Feuilly, and he jumped, turning around to find Jehan’s eyes open, staring at him intently from his nest of blankets. His face was so sunken and skinny, his eyes seemed massive, protruding from bluish eyelids.

            “Oh…I mean…yeah. Well, I’m trying to,” Feuilly replied. A smile crept across Jehan’s chapped lips.

            “What is your name?” he asked next, blinking those massive eyes.

            “Feuilly,” he replied, returning to his work, sitting on the windowsill with the heater in his lap.

            “Feuilly…” Jehan whispered, as if trying out the word. “I haven’t met anyone new in a long while. I’m glad you’re here,”

            “Well I’ll be here a while, I think…There’s a lots of stuff your mom wants me to do, so I’ll see you often. For a while, at least,” he smiled, though his heart continued to sink. Jehan was not only ill, but a prisoner.

            “That’s good…for me anyhow…I suppose you have much happier things to do then sit with me,” Feuilly shrugged.

            “No, it’s alright. I don’t mind,” Jehan smiled again.

            “How old are you? I mean…is that strange to ask?”

            “I’m 25,” Feuilly replied. “How old are you?

            “21, though I feel about 91!” he joked with a little chuckle, followed by a shuttering cough.

            “Are you alright?” Jehan nodded, a skeletal arm reaching out from under the pile of blankets and grasping a glass of water with a boney hand. The weight of the glass seemed quite a burden to him, and he rested it on the arm of the chair for a moment before taking a sip.

            “That happens sometimes…” he explained with a shrug. “It’s like my lungs just don’t want to fill up,”

            “Sounds like asthma,” Feuilly noted, remembering his own affliction as a child.

            “Oh no, the doctor thought so as well, but the inhalers made it worse…They’re not sure what it is…They’re not sure what any of it is. But I don’t want to talk about being sick,” he continued. “Do you like to read?” he suddenly changed the subject.

            “Honestly, I haven’t read a book in a really long time…” he admitted, removing the guts of the heater and examining the inside. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

            “Well that’s a shame…I quite like to read,” Jehan said. “What about movies?”

            “I like cool ones, like…fantasy stuff,” Feuilly replied.   “The Lord of the Rings are my favorite,”

            “Mine too!” Jehan exclaimed, sitting up just slightly, but quickly laying down again, clutching his stomach.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Yes I’ve just got to…just a minute,” he took a deep breath, and pushed off the blankets, revealing just how sickly his body was. He stood slowly, with some difficulty, his pajama shirt far too big for him and hanging from his shoulders as if on a wire hanger. His pajama bottoms were much the same, tied loosely around his skinny waist He shuffled to a second door in the corner, one Feuilly hadn’t even noticed, and stepped inside the small bathroom, closing the door, leaving Feuilly alone. He stood and headed for the kitchen, concerned.

            “Ms. Prouvaire?” he said as the woman stood at the counter. She seemed startled and turned around quickly, blocking her cooking from Feuilly’s view with her body.

            “Yes?” she asked, her eyes wide.

            “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare—”

            “What’s the matter?” she asked.

            “Jehan got up and went to the bathroom…I wasn’t sure—”

            “He’s alright. He knows to get me when he needs help. But thank you!” she smiled. “I’m almost done dinner. Have you finished the heater? I’ll just get another one—”

            “The filter is clogged. I just have to clean it out and put it back together…It should work after that. I’ll go back and finish up…” he went back to the small armchair room, wondering what Ms. Prouvaire was cooking so secretly. He shrugged. Perhaps she was only startled. She lived a very sad, stressful life…Maybe things were getting to her.

            When he returned, he found Jehan back in his chair, shivering, but seemingly happy to see him.

            “I thought you might have left. But I’m glad you didn’t,” he smiled.

            “Not till I finish this,” Feuilly replied, peeling the layer of dust off the filter of the little machine and beginning to put it back together.

            “I’m sorry for leaving, I just have a very weak stomach, I suppose. But you don’t want to hear about that,” he mumbled the last part, as if reminding himself of the proper way to interact with other humans.

            “It’s ok. You can talk about whatever you want. I’m sort of quiet…” he admitted with a little smile. “I would rather listen,”

            “I just haven’t talked to anyone in a long while, I feel like I have so much to say, but nothing to talk about!”

            “That’s an interesting way to put it,”

            “Yes…I write quite a bit, I suppose I speak the way I write…A little oddly.”

            “What do you write?”

            “Poems, mostly,” he smiled. “There isn’t much to do when you’re stuck in bed!” he continued jokingly, trying to lighten the mood of his situation for Feuilly’s sake. He didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for him…he did enough of that himself.

            “That’s cool,” Feuilly returned the grin, but before he could question further, Ms. Prouvaire bustled into the room, rolling a pole with what looked like an IV bag hanging from the top. The bag was filled with some sort of liquid, and a long, thin tube was attached to the bottom.

            “Ready for dinner?” she asked her son, who sighed.

            “I suppose so,” he replied halfheartedly, pushing the blankets away again and pulling up his shirt, revealing a feeding tube in his side. Feuilly looked away, feeling as if he wasn’t supposed to see. Attaching the ends of the tubes seemed somehow…intimate. Something you do alone or only with someone you trust very fully, and Feuilly had hardly been in the house an hour.

            “Back in 45!” she cooed, carefully replacing Jehan’s blankets before setting a timer on her phone. Jehan sighed again.

            “Sorry,” he said dejectedly. “It’s gross,”

            “That’s ok. It’s not your fault,” Feuilly assured him with a smile, replacing the screws on the back of the space heater and turning the dial. Warm air blew from the vent. Jehan smiled.

            “Thank you!” he grinned. “For everything, though, not just this. I know we’ve only just met, but you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in…ever,”

            “That’s cool, we can be friends,” Feuilly smiled, offering Jehan a fist for a bump. He seemed confused for a moment, but punched back feebly. “See you tomorrow?”

            “I’ll be here!” he said.

Woo!


	2. Chapter 2

Feuilly arrived early the next day, eager to start work…Eager to see Jehan.   Yes, he was a sad sight to behold, and a bit uncomfortable to be around, but Feuilly couldn’t help but think of how happy Jehan had been just to talk to him, just to see a different face. He couldn’t let him down.

            Jehan was just where he said he’d be, curled up in his armchair, this time laying with his head on the arm, reading a thick volume he propped up just in front of his face. Feuilly knocked on the doorframe to get his attention, and he looked up with a smile.

            “Feuilly! I’m so glad you’re here again!” he exclaimed.

            “Well, you said you liked me, so I came back,” he shrugged, jokingly.

            “I do like you! Thank you for coming back,”

            “Of course! Someone’s got to fix your dishwasher,” Jehan chuckled. “I guess I won’t really see you much, though. I’ll be out in the kitchen. Sorry,”

            “I’ll sit in the kitchen,” he smiled.

            “You don’t have to—” Feuilly replied, worried Jehan would hurt himself or make himself pointlessly sicker.

            “No I want to. I’ll sit on the sofa in the living room, that way I can see into the kitchen,” he grinned.

            “Okay. Do you want help?” he asked as Jehan slowly hoisted himself from the chair, his skinny ankles and skeletal feet peeking from under the blanket heap, his toes curling when they hit the cold floorboards.

            “No I think I’m alright…But thank you!” he smiled, shuffling from the room as Feuilly held the door.

            “Need anything?” Feuilly asked as he helped Jehan settle onto the sofa.

            “Nope, I’m perfect! Better than ever!” he smiled. “This side of the house is always so sunny, I love sitting out here,”

            “Why don’t you sit out here more often?” he opened the dishwasher and poked around.

            “My mother says she can’t keep it clean enough for me. She’s always cleaning the TV room, but I think she lets the rest of the house fall by the wayside sometimes. I feel very sorry for her…” he hesitated. “I don’t think she…expected a son like me,”

            “No. But things happen. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. I’m sure there’s nothing she’d rather do than help you,”

            “She wants to go back to work…She always talks about being a nurse again, but not just for me…And volunteer work. She used to like doing that, too…She shows me pictures sometimes, of when she was in the Peace Corps. She wanted to go to the Olympics for weightlifting…” he listed. He could have gone on. But Feuilly stopped him.

            “Nah. She loves you. She wants to be with you,”

            “But how do you know?”

            “Because parents always put their kids first. Always. And if they don’t, they’re the ones who are messed up.”

 

As if on cue, Jehan’s mother came down the stairs.

            “Feuilly! You’re here so early! Thank you for—Jehan what are you doing in here?” she asked. Feuilly furrowed his brows. He expected her to be happy Jehan felt well enough to get out of that little room, or frightened for his safety, but he heard anger in her voice.

            “I just wanted to—”

            “Jehan you’re not well enough. Go back to your room, I’ve kept everything clean in there for you. Come on. Are you hungry?” she asked as she took Jehan up into her arms. Jehan seemed even smaller against her robust body.

            “No,” he replied simply, sadly.

            “You should eat something. Come on,” she carried him back into his room.

 

After a few minutes, Jehan’s mother exited the tiny room, closing the door softly behind her. Feuilly pretended not to notice when she approached behind him, his head still in the dishwasher.

            “You’ve really lifted his spirits,” she said after a long moment. Feuilly crawled back from the dishwasher and smiled up at her.

            “That’s good,” he replied. She nodded, but didn’t seem to agree.

            “It is good…but I don’t want him to make himself sick showing off for you,” she smirked.

            “Was he not supposed to come out here?” he asked.

            “It isn’t good for him. He gets excited and then he just…” she shook her head.

            “What’s…wrong with Jehan? If you don’t mind me asking,”

            “A lot of things,” she replied, her face becoming red.

            “Cancer?” he asked. She shook her head.

            “Severe Crohn’s,” she began, “T-Cell deficiency, Autoimmune diseases, but the treatment for those made the Crohn’s worse, he gets rashes that weep, possibly hepatitis; that’s the kicker, nobody can figure out what’s really wrong with him,”

            “That sucks,”

            “And so much has gone wrong. Our old house caught fire, my husband died right after Jehan was born, my mother died last year, car accident…We just seem to have especially bad luck.”

            “I’m sorry,”

            “Thank you, Feuilly. That means a lot,”

            “Let me know if I can do anything else,”

            “Thank you,” she sighed, approaching the counter and pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. She then proceeded to mix some sort of concoction in a bowl. Feuilly paid her little mind, and assumed she was making whatever it was Jehan had to ‘eat’. But something caught his attention.

            He was replacing a screw in the back of the dishwasher when he noticed Ms. Prouvaire’s reflection in the glass of his wristwatch. She appeared to be peeking down towards him. He watched her in the reflection as she returned to her prep work, and frowned when he saw her use a syringe to syphon something from a large jug, putting only a drop into her concoction. She then walked away, back towards Jehan’s room.

            “Just let me know if you need anything, Feuilly,” she called back to him. He continued his work on the washing machine.


	3. Chapter 3

“Where did you grow up, Feuilly?” Jehan asked the next day as he sat, folding origami cranes in his chair while Feuilly painted the trim for the living room. He had situated himself outside Jehan’s room in such a way that he might look through the door and see him while he worked, and they could talk without Jehan having to move.

            “Um…I was actually born in Poland,” he explained, “and I was in an orphanage until I was a year old when I was adopted by my parents. They brought me to France. I grew up in Montmartre. Now I live in Père Lachaise.”

            “I’ve always wanted to live in Saint Germain. Have you ever been there?”

            “Yeah lots of times. I sell fans in a few of the little artsy stores down there,”

            “You’re an artist?”

            “Sort of, I guess,” he grinned, and Jehan smiled.

            “Could you bring one next time you come? I’d like to see,”

            “Sure. What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

            “Yellow, I think,”

            “I’ll make you a yellow one,” Jehan smiled brightly.

            “Really? For me?”

            “Yeah!”

Jehan was grinning until Feuilly left in the early.

            “Will you be back tomorrow?” he asked.

            “Yup. I’ve got to fix the window,”

            “I’ll see you then!”

            “See you then!”

 

—o0o—

 

            “’Ey Feuilly!” Grantaire said as he stood from his usual spot in the corner. “You’re late!”

            “Yeah where’ve you been?” Joly asked, nursing a beer beside Grantaire.

            “I was at work,” he replied, sliding into the booth next to Joly, taking the bottle of beer Grantaire offered and taking a swig.

            “At work until 7:00?” Grantaire inquired, raising a bushy eyebrow.

            “Uh…sort of,” he began. Feuilly wasn’t a big talker. “There’s this guy—”

            “Ohhh a _guy_ ,” he joked. Joly chuckled.

            “No not like that, it’s that volunteer thing—”

            “With the church? You’ve been helping the woman with housekeeping, right?” Enjolras interjected, approaching the table.

            “Yeah,” Feuilly nodded.

            “The woman with the sick son,” he added.

            “Yeah. I thought he was a kid though. He’s not a kid, he’s like, our age,” he continued.

            “What is he sick with?” Joly asked, scooting away from Feuilly, fearful of catching something.

            “They don’t know,” he explained. “It’s really sad. He’s so nice, but he never sees anyone except his mom…He’s bedridden and he’s only 20. It sucks. So I stay and hang out with him even after I finish work for the day,”

            “Well that’s kind of you,” Enjolras smiled.

            “Yeah. He’s really…really sweet. His name is Jehan,”

            “Maybe we can come see him some time,” Grantaire suggested. “He might like new faces,”

            “Maybe…His mom is super weird though. She won’t let him do anything, even if he feels like he can. She’s weird about germs and stuff. I doubt she’d let anyone in,”

            “That’s odd,” Enjolras agreed with a shrug, “but at least he has you now. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for him or the rest of his family,”

            “Thanks. I will,” he smiled. “I’m going back tomorrow. Maybe R could draw up a card or something and you guys could write in it,”

            “Way ahead of you,” Grantaire grinned, tearing out a page from his sketchbook with a perfect drawing of the Musain—their favorite bar—on the front. He folded it in half and passed it to Joly with a pen. He wrote a quick, friendly note inside before passing the card along to all the others sitting at the surrounding tables. Soon the card came to Feuilly with notes from everyone inside.

            “Thanks, guys,” he smiled. “I’ll give it to him tomorrow,”

 

 

Feuilly went home early and made a bright yellow fan for Jehan, thinking about him all the while, even as he lay in bed. It really just wasn’t fair. Jehan was such a kind person, so vibrant and deserving of life, and yet he was trapped in a body that just wouldn’t function, despite everyone’s best efforts. But his mother…there was something off, something wrong.

Of course she loved her son and wanted nothing but the best for him, she seemed to almost _enjoy_ telling Feuilly about her son’s woes, and was always so eager to tend to him, whether it be feeding him or helping him change his clothes. She would smile when Jehan complained of pain or discomfort. It was just…weird. And then there was that stuff she dropped into Jehan’s lunch today…What was it? Medication, probably, but she seemed so nervous. Then again he had only seen it through the reflection in his wristwatch, hardly incriminating evidence of something wrong. He sighed, wishing he could take Jehan’s place, if only for a day, just to give him a chance to live, to really live, not just be alive.

            At the very least, he could offer Jehan friendship, and for that, he was glad.

 

—o0o—

 

            “Feuilly this is beautiful!” Jehan exclaimed, carefully unfolding his happy yellow fan, his skeletal hands shaking as they protruded from his nest of blankets.

            “You said you liked flowers,” Feuilly noted as Jehan ran his fingers across the painted blooms.

            “I do! I do so much! I wish I could have plants in here, but my mother is worried over allergies,” he rolled his eyes. “but this is just as good as real flowers!” he extended his stick-like arms for a hug, which Feuilly accepted.

            He knew Jehan was thin, but giving him a hug was quite alarming. Feuilly felt as if he were hugging a classroom skeleton. He was worried he would snap Jehan in half should he hug too hard.

            “I have something else too,” Feuilly said, pulling away and retrieving the card from his bag, the notes from his friends written inside. He handed it to Jehan. “I was late for my volunteer group last night and my friends were asking why…I told them I was hanging out here with you and they said they wanted to write you a card,”

            “That was so kind of them,” Jehan replied with a smile, reading the well-wishes in 8 different handwritings.

           

_Hello Jehan! You are so very brave, lots of love, Bahorel._

_Jehan, did you know that you can test for meningitis at home? All you have to do is touch your chin to your chest. If you can do it, you don’t have meningitis! Hurray! Love from Joly._

_Jehan! Cool name. Sounds pretty medieval. Hang in there. -R_

_Best wishes, Jehan. Keep that chin up! (unless you’re testing for meningitis haha) From Bossuet_

_Jehan, I am so glad that you have found a friend in Feuilly. He is such a kind soul, and from what he’s told us of you, it sounds like you are just as lovely. Stay in touch, and if you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask! Yours, Enjolras_

_Jehan, you should come to a volunteer meeting, when you feel up to it. You sound like you’d fit right in! Stay strong! We are sending love. From Marius and Cosette_

_“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.” Hellen Keller said that, and I think it rings true for everyone. ~Combeferre_

_Give a shout if you get tired of Feuilly. I’d love to stop by and hang out! Love from Courfeyrac._

Jehan read the messages out loud with a smile, tears coming to his eyes, truly touched these people he had never met cared so deeply for him.

            “Feuilly this is the most beautiful gift I have ever received,” he wiped his eyes on his blanket, setting the card on the end table, standing up so he could see the drawing on the front. “Thank you so much! I don’t know what to say,”

            “You don’t have to say anything. As long as it made you happy,”

            “It really did. It really, really did. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my entire life. Thank you,”

Feuilly smiled, glad he had managed to lift Jehan’s spirits so high.

            “I have to go out to the living room to fix that window, but I’ll come back in and hang out before I leave,”

            “okay,” Jehan smiled. “Say hello to Outside for me,” he joked. Feuilly gave him a thumbs up.

 

—o0o—

 

Feuilly had only just taken the screen off the window to begin working when he saw Ms. Prouvaire come down the stairs. He looked inside, through the windowpane, as she headed into the kitchen, using her mountain of cleaning products to disinfect the countertops, sink, and even the cabinet handles before mixing Jehan’s lunch concoction in a small plastic bowl.

            Feuilly stayed quiet, trying to keep himself unnoticed, curious as to what exactly sustained Jehan.

            The majority of the mixture came from a carton not dissimilar to a carton of milk, and was labeled ‘complete nutrition’. Seemed ordinary enough, like one of those smoothies you gave a child who fussed over vegetables. Next, she measured a quarter cup of water and added that to the mix. Fine. Normal. Feuilly felt stupid for worrying over what Jehan’s mother was feeding him. Of course it was what he needed.

            She then opened a prescription bottle and crushed a tablet, stirring that in with a spoon. Also perfectly reasonable. Fueilly sighed, somehow relieved, though there was never really anything to be nervous over, and resumed his work on the windowpane. But as soon as he removed the plastic covering the broken glass, Ms. Prouvaire did something truly alarming.

            She took the jug of drain cleaner from her collection of cleaning supplies, and opened the lid. Feuilly prayed her drain was clogged. He had never imagined he would wish for a clogged drain, but now it was the only thing he wanted. But the drain was not clogged. Feuilly watched in horror as Jehan’s mother, his most trusted caretaker, took a dropper and plunged it into the jug of corrosive liquid, adding exactly three drops to Jehan’s bowl of food. He watched, helpless, as she quietly opened the door to Jehan’s tiny room, slipping inside with a smile, saying something Feuilly couldn’t hear.

            This was her fault. This was all her fault. She was killing her own child.

            But what could he do? If he ran in and tried to stop her, she would most certainly deny it, and would probably not be invited back, leaving Jehan worse off than before. And if he told Jehan, he would be completely crushed, the only person who had ever cared for him had betrayed him, and had been harming him his entire life. He tugged at his hair, frustrated, terrified, unsure what to do.

            He decided the best he could do was wait until tomorrow…then he would tell Jehan.   Or try to, anyway. He only hoped Jehan would last that long.


	4. Chapter 4

Feuilly rushed to Jehan’s early the next day, before he was due to start. Ms. Prouvaire was just leaving Jehan’s room with her empty bowl when he arrived. He offered her a smile, hoping to not come across as suspicious, afraid he would be asked to leave.

            “Good morning, Feuilly!” she smiled. “You’re early!”

            “Yeah, I wanted to finish up the window early,” he said. “I was just going to say hello to Jehan first,”

            “Well that’s kind of you,” she replied, “But he’s fallen asleep again. He does that in the morning, he’ll come down from bed but fall right back to sleep.”

            “Oh,” Feuilly felt his heart begin to race. He had thought himself lucky to catch her just after giving Jehan his breakfast. Feuilly could detach the tube and save Jehan from another dose of God-knows-what. But he had to play it cool. “Okay, I’ll just—” he faked a loud sneeze, hoping to wake Jehan and alert him to his presence. “Sorry,” he said.

            “Bless you!” Jehan cooed.

            “Sorry I woke you!” Feuilly said with a grin, peeking around the door, so glad his plan had worked.

            “Need anything, sweetie?” Ms. Prouvaire asked as Feuilly sat on the arm of Jehan’s chair.

            “No thank you, Mom,” he smiled. Ms. Prouvaire left the room, and as soon as Feuilly heard her ascend the stairs, he pushed away Jehan’s blankets and tugged at the feeding tube. Jehan pushed him away, startled.

            “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes wide, frightened.

            “I have to get this out of you, help me,” he whispered hurriedly.

            “No I need it, that’s my medication—”

            “Jehan you don’t need any of it, your mom is poisoning you, please just help me get this out, I don’t know how,”

            “What do you mean?” tears came to his eyes, and Feuilly felt as if he had been punched in the gut. How was he supposed to explain this?

            “Take this out and I’ll explain it, but you have to get this tube out, you can’t get any more of this shit,” he unhooked the bag of liquid from the hook and threw it to the floor, stopping the flow to Jehan. Jehan looked from Feuilly to the bag as it lay limply on the floor before finally removing the tube from the port at his side.

            “Jehan I am so sorry,” Feuilly said, pulling Jehan into a hug, which he did not return.

            “What’s going on?” he asked.

            “Your mom has been putting drain cleaner in your food. That’s why you’re so sick, Jehan. I have to get you out of here,”

            “No she didn’t!” he shouted—or as close as he could to shout—in reply. “Why would she ever do that?! You said yourself she only wants me to get better!”

            “That was before I saw her, Jehan, you have to believe me! She’s killing you! There’s something wrong with her, please listen,” Jehan only scowled, reaching down beside the chair and retrieving the bag of toxic sustenance and letting it drip onto his hand. He smelled it, then took a bit onto his finger and tasted it, immediately aware of the bitter bite of cleaning fluid.

The tears that glistened in Jehan’s eyes fell in a flood, and he fell into Feuilly, burring his face in his shoulder.

            “Why would she do that? Why did she do this to me?” he sobbed.

            “I don’t know, but we’re going to go to the hospital, and then we’re going to go to the police,” he nodded, wiping his eyes. “But we have to go fast. We’ve got to get out to my motorcycle before your mom comes back down and—”

            “Motorcycle?” he asked.

            “That’s all I have,”

            “Okay…”        

            “Where are your shoes?”

            “the closet by the door,” Feuilly retrieved them and slipped them onto Jehan’s feet. Then he scooped him up, blankets and all, and carried him out the front door, kick starting the engine and speeding away from the house in hardly five minutes.

 

—o0o—

 

One Month Later

 

—o0o—

 

“Breakfast?” Feuilly asked, opening the door to his small living room, which had served as Jehan’s bedroom the past few weeks. He sat up on the sofa and nodded with a small smile as Feuilly walked around the sofa and handed Jehan his dish of toast with jelly.

            “Thank you,” he cooed, digging in, taking tiny bites.

            After a few visits to the clinic and a new doctor, it quickly became obvious that the vast majority of Jehan’s health woes were either completely fictional or a direct result of literally drinking drain cleaner for 20 years. His rattling cough was from untreated asthma, and his stomach distress was 100% better just a week without the cleaning fluid in his food. Even so, permanent damage had been done.

            Whether from the drain cleaner or not, Jehan was horribly lactose intolerant. The chemical soup his mother was feeding him also damaged his stomach and entire digestive system, so though the feeding tube had been removed, Jehan still had to be careful of what he ate. Applesauce was his new favorite, and apple oatmeal, which he had never been allowed to eat before.

            “Here, have a drink,” Feuilly reminded him gently, offering him a glass of water.

            “Thanks,” he smiled. “We need new flowers,” he noted, looking to the vase on the windowsill. “These ones are getting floppy,”

            “We’ll go out and get some later, if you feel up to it,”

            “I do,” he grinned again. “I feel better than ever,”

            “Good,” Feuilly agreed.

            “Thank you, Feuilly,” Jehan began after a quiet moment of toast nibbling.

            “For what?”

            “For saving me. You hardly knew me, and you…you saved me.”

            “That’s what friends do, Prouvaire,”

            “I hope all the friends I make are as good as you,” Feuilly laughed.


End file.
